


If You Don't Believe You Better Get Superstitious

by LayALioness



Series: Bellarke Halloweek! [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hocus Pocus Fusion, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's a virgin," Octavia says, like that should explain everything, and Bellamy sighs.</p><p>He didn't mean to light the candle and summon three witches back from the dead--he's just trying to watch out for his sister, and hit on his cute neighbor, and he really wishes everyone would stop leading with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Don't Believe You Better Get Superstitious

**Author's Note:**

> HALLOWEEN. IT'S UPON US.
> 
> As such, I will be doing Halloween fics all month (I know it says Halloweek, but that's only because Hallomonth sounds stupid) so if you have a prompt you want me to write, let me know! I'm at http://tierannasaurusrex.tumblr.com/ come for Bellarke, stay for dad jokes and cat pictures.

Bellamy’s pretty sure moving to Salem is not the answer to his family’s problems. Sure, they’d outgrown their trailer, and his mom had been laid off from the Levi factory, and O was having problems at school, but. L.A. was his home; all his friends were there, and his favorite burrito bars, which they don’t even _have_ in the northeast, which is just one in a very long list of strikes against them.

Somewhere near the top of that list is the weather; he’d had to buy actual _sweatshirts_ for this move, and he’s pretty sure some awful puffy winter jacket is in his future, which pisses him off. Everything about this move has pissed him off, honestly, especially the fact that they didn’t even _ask_ him, before packing up their things into a moving van.

“A change will do us some good, bud,” Marcus had said, tossing Bellamy’s cymbals into a box. Marcus had married Aurora when Bellamy was in middle school, and he liked the guy alright, but he’d had a lot of doubts about his mom marrying a self-proclaimed _professional writer_.

He’d mostly written articles on gardening for those first few years, but then his book actually got published, and they didn’t have to cut out coupons for Costco just to afford dinner, anymore.

At first, Bellamy was pretty excited. People recognized his step-dad on the street, sometimes. Not a lot, because it turns out horticulture guides are a pretty niche subject, but sometimes. And he and O could afford new clothes for school, which was nice. And they got him the drum set that Christmas.

But then the book’s earnings stalled a little, and Marcus went back to magazine articles, and Aurora went back to the factory, and they all went back to Kraft mac and cheese and old jeans.

But Marcus’s agent, Jaha, lived in Salem, and after the second book did even better than the last, he somehow convinced him to move his family out to the other coast. He probably sent him a list of cool trees only found in Massachusetts, or something.

“Come on, bud,” Marcus kept saying the whole ride—because they’d _driven_ , so they wouldn’t have to pay to have the car shipped, which meant Bellamy spent two days trapped in the backseat with Octavia and all the stuff they couldn’t fit in the moving van—“Salem’s great! You’ll love it.”

Bellamy was pretty sure Marcus had never even _been_ to Salem. And, to be fair, he hadn’t either, so he didn’t know it would be as awful as he was suspecting, but. He knew what he needed to, which is it wasn’t L.A., and that’s what mattered.

Plus, on his first day at his new school—which he had to actually _bike_ to, even though he barely even knew how to bike anywhere, since his school in L.A. was right down the street, and he didn’t have his license, yet—some girl decided to start a verbal sparring match in his AP History course.

Her name was Clarke, which he only remembers because it’s so weird, and she’s everything he dislikes about people—privileged, arrogant, and insufferable.

She’s unfairly gorgeous, too, which he pointedly does not think about, because it does not matter.

Plus she’s dating Wells Jaha, student body president, filthy rich, and on the fast track to being class valedictorian, since he skipped a grade.

He’s also Thelonious’s son, which means when Bellamy comes downstairs after school that first week, he finds Wells standing awkward in the hallway.

“Hey Bellamy,” he says, pleasant, and Bellamy frowns.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is a little sharper than it probably needs to be, they’d had to grade each other’s papers in class that day, and Clarke had torn his to shreds. To be fair, he’d only written it in the lunch hour before it was due, but that’s what he’s done throughout his whole school career. It was usually fine, since he always knew the subject matter pretty well, and he can be persuasive when he wants to be, but when Clarke passed his paper back he could barely see through all the red ink.

They’d gotten into it, of course—they _always_ got into it, ever since that first day, when they’d gotten in a fight over _The Scarlet Letter_. She thought Dimmesdale and Chillingworth were equally bad, while he felt Chillingworth’s actions were at least justified. By the end of the week, their classmates knew to let well enough alone, and the teacher was at her wit’s end.

“Your dad invited us for dinner,” Wells says, and if he noticed Bellamy’s tone, he doesn’t say.

Bellamy frowns a little. He knows Marcus calls him and O his family, but they look different enough that people can usually tell their not blood relatives. Sometimes he’s asked if he’s adopted. “Marcus is my step-dad,” he says, and feels like a tool.

Wells shrugs. “Abby’s my step-mom,” he says. “I know how that goes.”

“Abby?” Bellamy asks, right as O rounds the corner.

“Bell!” she grins—she’s recently eleven years old, and this move is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to her. She already has three best friends at school, and she’s acing her math class, which is pretty unheard of. Plus, she actually _likes_ autumn, and is glad they finally get to have one. “Can you come put in the pony game?”

The pony game is some computer dress-up game for kids, where they get to make virtual horses and braid their hair and stuff. It’s pretty lame, as far as computer games go, but Octavia’s been obsessed with it since she was eight.

Bellamy rolls his eyes at Wells, who just shrugs and grins. “We’re going up to my room,” he decides. “Go ask mom to do it, or something.”

He leads Wells up to his bedroom, up in the uppermost loft in the house. It’s the only good thing about the place, as far as Bellamy’s concerned. Even he can admit it’s pretty great; twice as large as his room in the trailer, and there’s some stairs leading up to a little nook where a bell used to hang when the building was a church. It’s pretty old, which is cool. He’s been searching the library for old town records, trying to trace it back.

“Cool drum set,” Wells says, reaching over to lightly flick a symbol appreciatively.

“You play?”

Wells makes a face. “Marching band in sixth grade, but I was the oboe.”

“You’re not in the band at school?” Bellamy asks. He would have noticed; he’s been trying to transfer in, but they’re already halfway through the semester.

“I was pretty bad at it.”

They play on Bellamy’s old DS, because he doesn’t have anything newer, until he hears his mom call them down for dinner.

“Do you have a cellphone?” Wells asks, and Bellamy hands it over. He punches in his number and hands it back.

Okay, so Clarke might be insufferable, but her boyfriend’s pretty cool.

They’re talking about the merits of _Charmed_ walking down the stairs, when a flash of yellow catches Bellamy’s eye and his head snaps up.

Clarke Griffin is standing at the bottom of the stairs, laughing with his little sister. Bellamy stares until Wells clears his throat beside him, and the girls look up.

“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke smirks, and Bellamy absolutely does _not_ get turned on by how pleased she looks. She’s wearing one of those tank tops with the little buttons on the top, except hers are undone, and he can see an unfair amount of cleavage from where he’s standing. He’s clearly at a disadvantage.

“Princess,” Bellamy says back, and she flushes. It’s a good look on her.

But she flushes when she’s angry too, and he likes that even better, so he smirks right back.

She scowls. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t act like one,” he shoots back, and it feels familiar, so he relaxes.

“Then don’t be such an asshole,” she snaps, and they’re both almost grinning now, because they’re not all wound up about class or fucking Nathaniel Hawthorn. Now they’re bickering just to bicker, because it’s fun.

“Fifteen cents,” Octavia chirps, holding out an open palm to Clarke, who just blinks at her.

Octavia has recently started a Swear Jar, with a list of swears and their matching prices taped up beside it. She’s making a killing.

Clarke frowns, digging around in the pockets of her jeans. They’re older than Bellamy would expect from someone so rich, but he’s seen enough of Clarke to know she almost always wears old things covered in paint. Even now, there’s a smudge of green on her left shoulder, like she went to scratch an itch while her hands were still wet.

She pulls out two dimes and tells Octavia to keep the change, which she does, running off to put them in the jar. When she gets back, she slides next to Wells. “Are they always like that?” she asks, and Bellamy and Clarke go to defend themselves simultaneously.

“It’s even worse at school,” Wells says amiably. “I’m pretty sure it’s code for something else,” he turns around to wink at Clarke, who punches him in the shoulder so hard he winces.

Bellamy takes a moment to admire her form, and then frowns when he realizes what Wells has said. He and Clarke fall back a little, just outside the dining room, where he can hear their parents talking at the table.

“Aren’t you and Wells…?” he trails off a little, feeling stupid. He hopes she doesn’t think he’s hitting on her, because he’s not. He’s just curious, that’s all.

She’s not even his type.

“Hm?” she hums, looking up at him. She’s still shorter than him, and it would be easy to look down her shirt, but he doesn’t. Both, because that would creepy and a dick move, and because she is _not his type_.

“You and Wells,” he repeats, and she frowns.

“He’s my step-brother,” she says, and he coughs a little to cover up his surprise. She notices anyway. “Wait, you thought we were dating?” she asks, and makes a face. “Gross, no. We grew up together.”

Bellamy thinks back to what Miller told him that first day, when he’d asked about Clarke and Wells, sitting close together in the cafeteria. Looking back on it, it’s entirely possible that when Miller said _they’re_ in _together_ , he might have actually said _they_ live _together_. Miller mumbles a lot.

“Cool,” Bellamy says dumbly, and Clarke gives him a look, so he stuffs his face with spaghetti so he won’t have to speak anymore.

Octavia wiggles her eyebrows at him over the table, and he pretends not to see. She’s _eleven_ , she doesn’t know anything, yet.

But when the Jaha-Griffin’s finally leave, she sing-songs “Bell’s got a _crush_!” all the way up the stairs, until he shoves her. He does _not_ have a crush—she’s just less insufferable than he’d first assumed.

That night he gets a text from an unknown number.

 _Wells gave me your number bc he thinks I have a thing for you_.

He’s still trying to come up with a response, when she texts again.

_This is Clarke, by the way. If that’s not obvious._

He bites back a grin, for no real reason since no one can see him anyway, and then lets it out. She’s texting him, which. He’s not totally sure what that means, but she probably at least wants to be friends, or something.

He’s still like, sixty percent sure he doesn’t have a crush on her, but she’s cool, and intelligent, and her hair smells nice, and he wouldn’t be totally opposed to hanging out with her outside of a school setting.

 _And I don’t_ , she texts.

 _Have a thing for you_.

Bellamy hesitates for a second before replying. _Good, me neither._

 _Cool so we’re on the same page_ , she says. _So what are your thoughts on William the Conqueror?_

Bellamy rolls over with a grin and by the time he falls asleep, he’s still ten percent sure he doesn’t have a crush on Clarke Griffin.

She sits next to him at lunch on Monday. “Wells is at a student council meeting,” she explains, and makes a face. She’s eating some sort of weird sandwich—peanut butter and _apples_? Who actually _eats_ that?—and drinking sparkling grape juice from a glass bottle.

Bellamy’s lunch is one of those prepackaged rolls of pepperoni, and a lemon-lime Gatorade he found in his room. Clarke eyes it suspiciously. “That’s all you’re eating?”

“Not all of us have paper-bag lunches, Princess,” Bellamy snaps, and she stares at him.

He’s about to apologize, when she pulls an honest-to-god _homemade_ cupcake from her bag. “On me,” she says.

“No way.” He tries to slide it back to her. “I’m not a charity case, Griffin—I just forgot to pack more food today. I’m not starving, or anything.”

“We split it then,” Clarke says, firm, and they do.

They still tear into each other in AP History, because it would feel weird _not_ to.

Lunch with Clarke becomes a thing after that, and lunch with Wells by proxy. Class Treasurer and Secretary, Monty and Jasper, get roped into it too, along with Miller, somehow, until one day Bellamy looks around their table and realizes he’s stumbled into friendships without really realizing it.

He tells Clarke about it later, when they’re studying in his room, and she rolls her eyes. “You’re not as much of a lone wolf as you pretend to be,” she tells him, and flicks her eraser at his head. “Now come on, there’s a quiz tomorrow.”

It’s the day before Halloween, when Octavia mentions it. Clarke’s just gone home, after studying with him for the Chemistry test, and then spending the last half hour playing O’s pony game with her, because as it turns out, Clarke never really outgrew her obsessive pony phase either.

“When are you gonna ask Clarke out?” she asks, eyes narrowed and hands on her hips. If she wasn’t so scrawny, he’d probably feel intimidated, but as it is he just shoulders her out of the way.

“Did you eat all the ho-ho’s?” he demands, frowning at the empty box in the cupboard. Octavia huffs.

“Of course I did,” she says. “But what about _Clarke_? She’s over here every day, now!”

Bellamy’s first instinct is to argue, but when he thinks about it, he can’t. Clarke does come home with him most days, which feels a little uneven, since he doesn’t even know which street she lives on.

He could ask her, he knows, and she’d probably tell him. He could even text Wells, if he wanted. But—he wants her to just tell him because she wants him to know. Because she wants him to come over, even if it’s just for a study date, or tea and crumpets, or whatever it is rich people do at their rich houses.

Bellamy tosses the box at his sister. She dodges it expertly. “Don’t you have an imaginary boyfriend to swoon over?” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“He’s real, and his name’s Atom,” she says angrily. She’s been talking about the kid for weeks, but Bellamy has yet to actually _see_ him, and he likes to give her shit about it. Besides; they’re eleven. What do eleven-year-old’s know about dating? They probably don’t even hold hands.

“You need to ask out Clarke, before someone beats you to it,” she pushes, and Bellamy shrugs.

“I’m working on it.” And he is, but—it’s _hard_ , turning being friends and forever-group-project-partners with Clarke into something more. What if he’s wrong, and she doesn’t see him like that? It would throw off their whole dynamic, which isn’t really something he wants to risk.

“Well, work harder,” O orders, and stomps away.

Halloween falls on a Friday, which Bellamy’s later convinced is on purpose. Halloween in L.A. isn’t really a bigger deal than any other holiday in L.A., except maybe the fourth of July, because everything smells like smoke for days after, and a lot of things catch on fire.

But in Salem, Halloween is _their_ day. Which, given the town’s history, definitely makes sense, but he hadn’t really given it much thought, so he’s not really expecting to walk through the school doors in the morning and get a face full of silly string.

“What, the, _fuck_ ,” he splutters, as students crow around him. There’s silly string _everywhere_ ; on the lockers, on the _ceiling_ , in people’s hair. Even the teachers take it in stride, walking around with neon green and purple on their shirt collars and pants. People are in _costume_. Bellamy feels like he’s stepped into a parallel universe, and is trapped in one of those animated Disney Channel shows O pretends she’s too grown for.

“All Hallow’s Eve,” Clarke chirps beside him, waving her emptied silly string can in his face. She’s wearing a long silky red cape with the hood up around her blonde curls, and there’s a smudge of purple on the mole over her lip that he wants to rub off.

Bellamy scoffs, wiping the stuff from his hair with a grimace. His hands will be sticky all day. “Don’t tell me you believe in that stuff.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “It’s been documented and proven that tonight, of all nights, things happen that are impossible to explain,” she sniffs, and he grins down at her.

“Clarke Griffin believes in ghosts,” he teases, pulling one of her curls. “Who knew?”

She swats his hand away. “Literally everyone but you,” she says with a shrug. “Everyone in Salem believes. In a town like this, it’s hard _not_ to.”

“Well I’m from L.A.,” Bellamy shrugs back, taking the textbooks out of her hands even when she argues. She _always_ argues, even though he’s been doing this for weeks. “And I don’t believe. It’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.”

She draws him an old, Baba Yaga-style witch in class, and pretty much _throws_ it at him before rushing out, claiming she has to catch a ride home for the day. He hangs the drawing up in his room, and is just stepping away when Octavia bursts out of his closet.

She’s been doing this for a while, now, even though they all tell her to stop. Last week she jumped out at their mom while she was ironing a dress, and she nearly burned O’s face off for her trouble. It’s going to get her _killed_ , he’s pretty sure. This is how his kid sister will die.

“What’s that?” she demands, leaning in close to squint at the picture. “It’s super cool.”

“Clarke drew it,” Bellamy says, nonchalant, and shrugs. Octavia straightens up to give him her most unimpressed look. But she’s dressed in a bright purple witch costume from Party City, so the effect is kind of lost.

“You’re taking me trick or treating,” she declares. “Mom and dad said.” She was still little when Marcus married their mom—old enough to remember life without him, but young enough to be flexible with words like _dad_. Bellamy’s been trying to figure out a way to slip into it, without it seeming weird, or awkward.

“Why can’t they do it?” Bellamy asks, but he’s just curious. He doesn’t actually _mind_ hanging out with his sister, and it’s not like he has other plans.

Monty and Jasper invited him to a party in some graveyard, but when he found out Clarke wouldn’t be there, it wasn’t as tempting. Clarke and Wells’ parents are hosting some kind of rich people thing, and Clarke had made a face when he asked about it, so he’s pretty sure it’ll be bland and miserable, like most rich people things.

He’d still go, if she asked him, but. She hasn’t asked him.

Octavia shrugs, flopping down on his bed. “They’re going to some kind of grown-up party at City Hall. No kids allowed,” she says bitterly, and he flops down beside her.

“Their loss,” he says. “You make an awesome witch.”

O turns to beam at him. “I know. You weren’t planning to hang out with Clarke, right? Because I can just—”

“No way,” Bellamy cuts her off. He’s generally snappish enough to feel like a jerk most of the time, but he’s not so bad that he’ll abandon his baby sister so he can hang out with a girl. “Plus you’re gonna give me half your candy, right?”

“Obviously,” O scoffs, and they shake on it.

They go down their block first, and the neighbors are giving out a pretty good variety. Mostly those generic brand Mars Bars, but a few king sized Snickers and even a genuine caramel apple—which Bellamy refused to let her take, because it was unpackaged and could be filled with cocaine or something. See? He’s a great brother.

All in all, Salem seems like a pretty trick-or-treater-friendly place, which is nice. L.A. was very touch and go, with only a few safe neighborhoods for them to go through, so they mostly just stuck to the trailer park with people they knew.

Then they get to Ark Avenue, and Octavia lets out a whispy whistle, because she’s just started learning and is still fairly bad at it. But he gets the point.

“Yeah,” he says, and swallows. The whole row is filled with actual _mansions_ , each bigger and classier and better decorated than the last. And he _knows_ that if Clarke lives anywhere nearby, this is the place.

“Look at that one,” Octavia says, pointing, and Bellamy gapes a little. It’s definitely the nicest one on the street, with artfully stacked hay bales and _dozens_ of jack o’lanterns, each of them carved neatly into an image. There are the usual suspects; silhouetted witches, and arching cats, and dancing skeletons, but he’s pretty sure he also sees one with Bob Marley’s face on it, which is neat.

“They probably have the fancy chocolates, with nuts and stuff,” Octavia chirps, marching up the drive.

“Snickers has nuts,” Bellamy grumbles, but he still follows, because _Clarke might be here_. And even if she isn’t, he’s not missing out on fancy chocolate.

“ _Fancy_ nuts, god, Bell,” Octavia huffs, and rings the bell. The door’s knocker is the size of his neck, and it looks like it’s made out of _platinum_ , which is kind of a lot to take in.

The door opens, and for a second Bellamy just stares at the person dumbly, until they speak.

“Hey Bellamy,” they say. “Hey, Octavia.”

“Hi Wells,” O chirps. “Got any chocolate?”

Bellamy stares harder. “ _Jaha_?”

Wells is wearing a full suit of armor, with only the skin around his eyes showing through the helmet’s slats. His eyes crinkle a little, like he’s smiling. His voice comes out muffled by the metal. “Raven—she works at the Museum of Smith-work down on Main—made it for me.”

He steps back, armor rattling a little, so they can walk in. There’s a massive cauldron in the middle of the foyer, filled with all the fancy nuts-and-chocolate Octavia could dream of, and they dig their hands in while Wells watches, amused.

“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke says, and Bellamy jumps back, looking up. This time she’s the one at the top of the stairs, and he’s the one at the bottom, and she’s grinning down at him like she’s happy to see him there.

She’s wearing some sort of gown, like a princess costume from the movies. It looks hand-made, and silky soft, and it’s the same shade of gold as her hair. It fucking _sparkles_ , and Bellamy feels his mouth go dry.

“Hey,” he says, and then grins a little. “ _Princess_.”

Clarke laughs and makes a face, like maybe she feels as awkward as he does. “I know, I know, but—don’t laugh!—I’m a princess every year for Halloween. Since I was six. It’s tradition.”

“ _Every_ year?” Bellamy asks, and she throws her shoe down at him. It’s just a soft ballet slipper, so it wouldn’t have hurt, but she has shitty aim and it lands in the cauldron.

“Shut up,” she says with no real heat, and walks down to them. “I switch it up sometimes. There’s Leia, and Fiona from Shrek. Last year, I was Xena.”

Bellamy pictures Clarke in a Xena costume, all small bits of leather and tons of creamy skin, and he gives small thanks that she isn’t dressed like that right now. He’d probably die, just lay down and die. O would have to explain everything to their parents, and it would be mortifying. He would be a pathetic, humiliated ghost, with a ghost boner.

“Who are you now?” O asks, saving him the trouble, and sticks a witch-shaped lollipop in her mouth. Their mom had told him not to let her have more than three pieces of candy tonight, and he’s pretty sure she’s at number seventeen.

He’s a _fantastic_ brother.

“All-Kinds-Of-Fur,” Clarke chirps. “It’s a Brothers Grimm story, about a king who was going to marry his own daughter, so she ran away wrapped in fur, to live in a forest. She had three gowns—a gold one, a silver one, and a blue one.”

“He wanted to marry his _daughter_?” Octavia makes a face. Her tongue is green from the lollipop.

Clarke shrugs. “It’s the Brothers Grimm.”

“And you’re her knight in shining armor?” Bellamy turns to Wells, who’s trying to drop bites of a Kit-Kat through the gap in his helmet, and catch them with his mouth.

“Nah,” he says through a mouthful. “Just _a_ knight. She couldn’t afford me.”

Clarke sticks her tongue out at him, and grins at Octavia. “Are you any witch in particular?”

O scrunches her nose a little, like she’s thinking. “We just learned about the Trikru Sisters,” she starts, and Bellamy looks at her.

“The who?”

“Oh, I remember them,” Clarke laughs. “We learned about them _every year_ in elementary school.” She turns to give Bellamy a conspiratorial grin, which he absolutely does not know what to do with. “They’re sort of like the town mascots—the most famous witches ever executed in Salem.” She frowns prettily. “The witch trials,” she sneers, “Were _barbaric_. They didn’t even have any real _proof_.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees, because he does actually _know_ about witches. He just doesn’t believe they were real—or, at least, real _witches_. They were victims of mass hysteria and sexism, who were senselessly murdered. Nothing more.

“Did you know there’s a museum?” O asks Clarke—she’s clearly ignoring Bellamy, because he’s a non-believer, and he rolls his eyes.

Clarke brightens up immediately. “Actually, I worked there over the summer. I even,” she leans in towards them, voice going low. “Still have a key.” She winks, and Bellamy _melts_ into her mother’s nice handwoven carpet.

“We should go,” Bellamy decides, surprising even himself, and the girls turn to him with wide eyes.

“What?” Clarke asks. “Like, right _now_?”

“Why not?” Bellamy shrugs, pointedly avoiding O’s harsh gaze. “Come on—make a believer out of me.”

Clarke worries her lip a little before grinning. She can’t say no to a challenge. “You know what? Yeah. Let me go change, and then we’ll go.” She plucks her slipper out of the cauldron, and hustles up the stairs.

“And I guess _I’m_ supposed to cover for you guys?” Wells asks, metal clinking on metal as he tries to cross his arms. Eventually he gives up and just stands there.

“Would you?” Bellamy asks, and O elbows him.

“You can come too,” she offers, but Wells shakes his head.

“Nah, someone’s gotta be on candy duty, or our parents will get suspicious.”

“Plus, he invited Raven Reyes over, and she said she might stop by,” Clarke adds from the top of the stairs, and Wells flushes.

She’s wearing a comfortable, too-big sweater and a pair of thin paint-stained jeans. She should _not_ have been able to change out of her enormous dress that quickly, and still look this perfect.

“Shut up,” Wells mumbles halfheartedly, and Clarke raps her knuckles on his helmet before skipping out the door. “Have fun!” he calls after them. “Don’t call forth any spirits!”

“No promises,” Bellamy shoots back, and Clarke grins at him. He’s so gone—he’d probably host a fucking _séance,_ calling Nathaniel Hawthorn to get his take on the Dimmesdale versus Chillingworth debate, if this girl asked him to.

“So,” Bellamy hedges as they walk, “Wells has a girlfriend? You’ve been holding out on me.”

Clarke laughs, bright and loud. “Her name’s Raven, and she’s not his girlfriend _yet_. He’s flirting, badly, by buying basically anything she sells to him. She’s been jacking up the price, trying to see what his limit is, but so far…”

He grins. He’s been assuming Wells Jaha was some sort of android, incapable of actual human flaws, so it’s nice to hear he’s pretty clueless around women. “How come she doesn’t go to school with us?”

“She’s nineteen,” Clarke shrugs. “Wells met her when he skipped a grade. She’s awesome. And _hot_ ,” she grins wolfishly, and he actively does not blush. “When he first introduced us, I was so pissed that he got to her first.”

Bellamy really, really hopes she’s bisexual. He doesn’t have anything against lesbians, but—it’d suck if she turned him down because he’s a guy. There’s not much he can do about that without surgery, and he’s not sure he likes her _that_ much.

Thankfully, O’s nosiness saves him again.

“So you like girls _and_ boys?” she asks, and Clarke nods.

“Yeah, I’m bi.”

“Cool,” Octavia nods, and they fist bump. Bellamy is going to do his sister’s chores for a _week_. Maybe two weeks; she’s a pretty kickass wingman, for an eleven year old.

They reach the museum pretty quickly. It’s on the edge of the town, in the woods a little, but Clarke’s house is just fifteen minutes away.

The museum itself is an old cottage, and looks exactly like the place Baba Yaga would live. There’s an ancient water wheel and everything, and moss growing on all the walls. The furniture and all the stuff inside is encased in hard plastic cases, which is predictable, if a little disappointing. Everything about this place reeks of history, making Bellamy’s hands itch.

The candle is in a little metal case, easily accessed. It’s huge, and black, and gnarled with old wax pooling down the sides and at the bottom, coated with dust over time. But the wick’s still there, if a little crooked.

“The Black Flame Candle,” Clarke whispers into his ear, and he knows she’s trying to sound cryptic and otherworldly, but mostly she just sounds a little breathless, and hot. “It’s said that if a virgin lights it on All Hallow’s Eve, it would bring the Trikru Sisters back from the dead.”

“Bell should light it then,” Octavia chirps innocently. “We can see if it works.”

Bellamy takes back every nice thing he’s ever thought about his sister—when they get home, he’s locking her in a closet and duct taping the doors.

He still has a lighter from Monty—one of those cheap Bic ones, with little marijuana leaves all over it. Monty has several dozen, all different patterns, constantly spilling out of his pockets and bag—in his back pocket. When he pulls it out, and lets it hover over the candle, it’s mostly just to make Octavia squirm, but it’s Clarke who grips his arm.

“Don’t,” she says, eyes scared, and he lets his thumb off the safety.

“Nothing will happen,” he tells her, and her hand goes a little loose. “It’s not real.”

He flicks it again, to see if maybe he can make O squeal all high and squeaky like she does when she’s really scared, but suddenly something big and black and _sharp_ jumps up and latches onto his arm.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Bellamy growls, flailing while O cries out. It’s Clarke who grabs onto the custodial broom someone left leaning against the table, and whacks at the thing, _hard,_ until it falls away.

From the ground, it hisses up at them, and Bellamy scowls down at it. “You owe me a dollar,” O huffs, clearly annoyed that she freaked out a little. But then the cat lets out a low growl, and when Bellamy looks, he sees it’s staring up at the candle.

Apparently, the flame had caught. The candle is lit.

“Shit,” he says, and O’s voice is tiny when she tells him “Twenty-five cents.”

Then the lightbulbs all burst out at once, as the fireplace erupts with green flames, licking at the cobblestone. Cackling echoes all around them, and Bellamy meets Clarke’s wide eyes with his own.

“Hide,” she hisses, and they all scatter, ducking behind furniture and jutting out bits of wall.

He’s just settled behind the crooked iron stove, when the front door slams open. Three women stand silhouetted against the night before striding in like they own the place.

Which, he realizes as he takes in their dirt-stained dresses and moldy striped stockings, they probably still think they do.

He recognizes them, impossibly, from his school textbook. Anya, Indra, and Lexa Trikru, back from the dead.

“Heda,” the middle one—Indra, he’s pretty sure, with the scars—snarls. “I smell a _child_.”

The skin on the back of his neck prickles and he hopes to God they mean him, or Clarke. Anyone but Octavia.

“Someone must have lit the candle,” Anya says, face covered in mud like war paint. “Find them.”

Indra sets off, and the other two follow, as she rounds the table he knows O is hiding under. Before he can react, and maybe cause a diversion, or throw himself on the grenade while Clarke grabs O and runs, his sister pops up from the shadows.

She’s still wearing her costume, and he knows what she’s going to do, even before she tries it. “Good evening, sisters,” she says, tone haughty and rich, clearly her _witch_ voice.

The sisters do not smile. They don’t do much of anything, and so Octavia goes on.

“T’was I, who lit the candle,” she says. “And brought you back.”

“Whatever for?” Lexa asks, impassive, and for a moment, O falters.

“I needed help with a spell,” she decides, and that gets their attention.

“You are no witch,” Indra sneers, but Anya puts a hand to her shoulder.

“Show us,” she demands. “Prove yourself.”

“Very well,” O nods, and sticks out her tongue. It’s still a dark green from the candy, and the witches let out a collective breath.

“That _is_ telling,” Lexa decides with a nod. “She is one of ours.” She reaches for Octavia, just as the cat leaps onto her back with a yowl.

She shrieks, and her sisters go to pull him from her, and Bellamy seizes his chance. He runs out and grabs O’s arm, as Clarke appears from the other side, holding a cast iron pan like a baseball bat.

“Thieves!” Indra hisses, finally tossing the cat away into the shadows. She points an accusatory finger at Bellamy and Clarke, tugging O out between them. “They have the witchling!”

The witches go to follow them out, but Clarke grabs the garden hose, hooked up to the water pump outside. She aims it at the sisters, and squeezes the handle until water bursts out in a stream.

The sisters shriek and fall back, and they rush off through the woods, heading back to Clarke’s house, since it’s closer.

They should probably go to the police or something, but to be honest, Bellamy doesn’t even know what he’d say. _Hi, I’m a virgin and I lit the Black Flame Candle and brought the Trikru Sisters back from the dead, and now they’re after my little sister_? Yeah, that’ll go over well. At best, they’ll think he’s just some punk teenager playing a prank on Halloween.

Worst case scenario, he ends up in a room with padded walls.

They’re halfway to Clarke’s house, when she hits him. “Bellamy, what the _hell_ ,” she demands, sounding hysterical. He can’t really blame her.

“Yeah, Bellamy, what the hell?”

They all turn towards the voice, to find the black cat sitting on the ground looking up at them. Bellamy thinks the cat looks like an asshole, but he could be projecting. His arm still stings.

“Did the cat just speak?” he asks, and the cat in question heaves a sigh.

“My name is Murphy,” it says, sounding cross. “And yes, I did. Care to explain _yourself_ , now?”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth a few times, looking between Bellamy and the cat before settling on Bellamy. “What the _hell_ ,” she repeats, sounding murderous.

“I have no idea,” he admits, and the cat sighs again, heavy and dramatic, which seems unnecessary.

“I do,” it says, _definitely_ annoyed. “A _virgin_ lit the Black Flame Candle.” And now it’s mocking him, which. Great; this is just what he needs. A talking asshole cat, making fun of his virginity in front of the girl he likes. It’s like all of his ridiculous anxiety dreams, rolled up in one, except he’s not naked.

The night’s not over, yet, he reminds himself.

“Why can you talk?” O asks, and she seems impressively put-together, all things together.

Murphy blinks at her and then squints its eyes, as if to make sure she’s real. Then it nods once, decisive. “The witches kidnapped my sister, and then cursed me when I tried to get her back.”

Clarke gasps. “You’re _John Murphy_ ,” she says, shocked. “You’re supposed to be _dead_!”

“Yes well, it didn’t take,” Murphy deadpans.

“What happened to your sister?” Bellamy asks, because contrary to everything else leading up to this moment, he’s not a complete idiot. Older brother trying to save kidnapped sister from witches? He can see the parallels.

“She died,” Murphy sighs. “They cursed her, and she killed someone from our village, so they ran her out. She jumped from a ledge in her grief. Her name was Charlotte,” he adds, and Bellamy tries very hard to keep breathing.

“Why’d they take her?”

Murphy glares up at him. “It’s what they _do_ ,” he says. “They take children, usually girls. Some, they try to train to be witches, like them. But mostly, they drink their life force. It keeps them young, and beautiful.”

Bellamy shudders, clamping a hand on O’s shoulder. She doesn’t try to shrug him off, for once. “How do we stop them?”

“We kill them,” Murphy says, like it’s obvious.

“But they’re technically dead already,” Clarke muses. “How do we kill them _again_?”

“Look, lady, I’m not an _expert_ on the bitches,” Murphy snaps, and Bellamy glares down at the cat.

But Clarke just ignores them. “I think I know someone who is,” she decides, and turns briskly towards her house.

“Pretty sure your step-brother’s not a witch expert, Princess,” Bellamy says, swinging his arm around O as they walk. They’re not really running, yet, but they are walking faster than usual, and it’s comforting, feeling her close to his side. Murphy trots along beside them.

“Not Wells,” Clarke agrees. “Raven.”

The party at Clarke’s is in full swing when they arrive, and there’s no one to greet them at the door, this time.

“So much for candy duty,” Bellamy mutters, standing up a little straighter to try and see over all the people. Clarke’s yellow hair bobs along through the crowd, so he tugs O along and follows after her. He trusts Murphy to find its own way.

Wells is leaning against a wall in the hallway. He’s stripped off most of the armor, leaving just his shins and forearms covered, wearing sweatpants and a Henley underneath. Beside him stands a gorgeous Latina dressed like the Devil. They both grin when Clarke walks up, and the Devil gives her a quick side-hug as they talk. Bellamy strides up and catches the tail end of their conversation.

“…wondering if you could help,” Clarke says in a rush, and the Devil—Raven, Bellamy remembers—raises a brow.

“I mean, sure,” she says, glancing over first Bellamy and then Octavia, and then down at the cat on the floor. She frowns. “When’d you guys get a cat?”

“We didn’t,” Wells says, also frowning. He looks at Clarke. “They’re never going to let you keep it.”

Murphy scoffs. “I have no interest in being one of those collared, jailhouse cats. I _earn_ my supper, thanks,” he sniffs, turning his nose up, and the other two gape.

“Well then,” Wells finally says, “We should probably go somewhere a little more private.”

 _Somewhere more private_ turns out to be Clarke’s room, every bit as soft and pretty as she is, with mint green walls and a huge canopy bed big enough for them to all sit in a circle comfortably. It’s soft, with lots of pillows, and Bellamy very much wants to spend a lot of time there.

They tell the story from the beginning, with Bellamy getting only a little flustered about the whole virgin thing, but Raven and Wells just listen dutifully, occasionally nodding, or interrupting to ask a relevant question. Overall, the whole thing goes pretty well.

“And what were you doing there?” Raven asks Murphy, who has decided the only one of them it doesn’t actively dislike is Octavia, and is curled up on her knee while she pets its ears. It keeps leaning into her hand, before remembering it’s supposed to hate them.

“On vacation,” it sneers. “What the fuck do you think? I was _trying_ to keep some virginal idiot from lighting the damned candle!”

“You’re the worst guard cat ever,” Clarke says, affectionate, and Murphy bristles.

“You caught me at a bad moment,” it defends. “I was hunting!”

“Hunting what?” Wells asks, and the cat licks its lips, tellingly.

“Spiders, mostly,” it says. “Maybe one or two roaches.”

Octavia’s hand pauses in midair. “Gross,” she makes a face, and Murphy seems pretty smug about it.

Clarke turns back to Raven, who’s looking thoughtful. “So? Any ideas?”

“Maybe,” Raven shrugs. “Any idea when the spell that brought them wears off?”

“Sunrise,” Murphy says. “It only works for a single night, unless they drink a child, or choose an apprentice.” They all glance meaningfully at Octavia, before looking away. She folds her hand into Bellamy’s, and he squeezes. He’s not going to let some hundreds-year-old women take his sister.

“Okay, so we should probably get you to a safe zone,” Raven muses. “What about hallowed ground?”

Clarke scrunches her nose up thoughtfully. “You mean, like a graveyard?”

Raven grins meanly. “ _Exactly_ like a graveyard.”

“It’s the candle, right?” Bellamy asks, and they turn to look at him. “So why don’t we just blow it out?”

Murphy scoffs, and Bellamy has never wanted to punch a cat in the face until now.

“Won’t work,” Ravens says, dismissive. “It’s a magic candle.”

“Oh, right,” Bellamy says wryly. “Magic candle, how could I forget?”

They ignore him, which seems fair; he’s the one that got them all into this mess, and now he’s being an asshole about it. But he can’t help it—there are three undead witches out there somewhere, and they want his sister, to do who knows what—he’s a little freaked out.

On his other side, Clarke wraps her hand around his, fitting their fingers together. Her skin is smooth and cold, and he grips it tightly.

“We can do this,” she says, low, just for him. “We just have to last until dawn—they won’t get Octavia.”

They’re first kiss should probably not be on her bed, in front of her friend, her step-brother, and his kid sister, while on the run from some magic zombie women.

“After we win this thing,” he says, just as quiet, wetting his lips. “You maybe want to get dinner sometime?”

Clarke’s grin is slow and wistful. “Took you long enough.”

They’re on their way downstairs, bags filled with whatever meager weapons they could find around the house—which meant a lot of umbrellas and some metal sword cast from Raven, along with the cast iron pan Clarke stole from the museum—and _salt_ , of all things, which Raven has assured them will help.

Then they see the Trikru Sisters in the crowd, looking stark and dangerous, and then the sisters see _them_.

“Run!” Murphy orders, and takes off in a streak of black. But there are too many people for the others to just rush through, and the witches are at the bottom of the stairs in no time.

“Mistress,” Lexa says, and the three witches bow low to the ground while the rest of them stare.

“What,” Bellamy starts, but then realizes the women are staring at _Raven_ , looking fond, and awe-struck.

“You found the witchling,” Anya observes, pleased.

“Of course I did,” Raven says, sounding relaxed and relatively normal. Like getting mistaken for Satan by three hundred year old witches is an everyday thing for her. “I’m awesome.”

“These are my…servants,” Raven adds with a smirk, gesturing to the rest of them. “They’re going to take the witchling into the—preparation room, and—prepare her.”

If the witches notice how completely lame and unsubtle she is, they don’t say, and they move aside when the rest of them move to get past.

“What about you?” Wells hisses, but Raven just waves him away.

“The Trikru Sisters and I will join you in a moment,” she says haughtily. “We have some catching up to do.”

And then Clarke’s tugging them all swiftly behind her, marching out the door.

“She’ll be fine,” she tells Wells, who’s walking stiffly in what’s left of his armor. He looks ready to vomit. “She’s nineteen; the witches only go after kids, remember? Besides, she’s a natural at this stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says, completely unconvinced.

There are several graveyards in Salem, but Clarke leads them to the one nearest her house, which also apparently happens to be playing host to a bunch of drunk teenagers tripping on LSD.

“Clarke, Wells— _Bellamy_! You guys made it!” Jasper waves at them from his perch on a large, tree-shaped tombstone, and only wobbles a little. Beside him, Monty gives a subdued grin.

Murphy makes a disgruntled noise. “There are _more_ of you?” he asks, clearly not pleased about this development.

They manage to dodge the other kids pretty easily—it turns out Monty and Jasper are already pretty drunk, and _Miller_ , which Bellamy’s pretty shocked by. He didn’t know Miller ever actually left his house for anything but school.

The graveyard’s pretty big, and the party has stuck mostly to the front edges, so their little group marches steadily towards the back, until they can barely even hear the music anymore.

Murphy leaps up onto one of the headstones, probably so he has a better vantage point for sneering, and bossing them around. “Put Octavia in a circle of the salt,” he orders, and Bellamy really wants to tell him to fuck right off, but. He probably knows better than them, about this kind of stuff, so he does it.

Octavia kneels down in the circle, looking unbelievably tired, and Bellamy feels a pang of guilt. It’s _his fault_ —Octavia’s in danger, and _it’s his fault_ , which is one of his nightmares come to life.

Not his _worst_ nightmare, which involves Octavia, and their mom, and Marcus, and a whole bunch of other people dying horribly, and it being his fault. He’s hoping to prevent that one, at least.

He goes over to sit beside her, maybe try and cheer her up, but Murphy beats him to it, and curls up in her lap. He even _purrs_ like an asshole, but Octavia doesn’t seem to mind.

Clarke wanders up to lean against the tombstone next to him, and he takes her hand again. It’s tiny and perfect and he doesn’t want to let it go.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I don’t think I’ve said that, yet.”

“You didn’t,” she agrees, curling into his shoulder. Her hair smells like the ocean. “It could have happened to anyone,” she says, and then pauses. “Well,” she smirks. “Maybe not _anyone_.”

Bellamy stares down at her as she grins, leaning in even further, and his heart feels like it’s going to tear through his ribcage when she presses her mouth to the skin of his neck.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Lexa calls from above them, and they look up to see all three witches hovering in the air on old broomsticks.

“You have something of ours,” Anya says, and Bellamy hates her.

“She’s not _yours_ ,” he spits, and she ignores him.

“Not the girl,” she corrects. “The _corpse_.”

“Shit,” Murphy says, as the earth beneath them rumbles.

“What’s happening?” Clarke demands, and Wells crashes to the ground in his metal. “Earthquake?”

The witches are saying something in a different, harsh language that he doesn’t recognize. In the salt circle, Octavia looks ready to jump them, herself.

“This is Lincoln’s grave,” Murphy explains. “One of their failed apprentices—they killed him, so he couldn’t share their secrets.”

“Likable bunch,” Bellamy mutters.

“They are assholes,” Murphy agrees. “Incoming.”

The sisters cackle as the ground splits open, and a pair of rotten human hands come into view.

“Whoa,” Jasper says, standing behind them. His eyes are glazed over, and he’s slurring a little, so hopefully in the morning he’ll chalk this all up to a bad trip. “Is that a zombie?”

Monty, right behind him, nods. “Righteous.”

“Lincoln, fetch the witchling and bring her to me,” Anya demands, and then nods to her sisters. All at once, they dip down, and scoop Jasper and Monty up effortlessly, one-handed. Clarke tries to grab onto Monty’s leg as he rises, but falls back with just his right sneaker.

“For insurance,” Anya tells them, soaring off. “We _will_ see you soon.”

“Well that was a massive failure,” Murphy decides, stretching out, even as the zombie is climbing up from his grave.

Clarke pulls her pan from the bag, while Wells grips an umbrella, and Bellamy scoops up a very large branch. He’s never actually fought a zombie, but he’s seen enough movies to know that he has to go for the brain.

They’re all tensing, rearing back and ready to strike, when Raven barks out “Stop! What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

She marches up to them one by one, snatching their weapons away and tossing them to the ground, before walking up to the zombie like a natural. She digs a switchblade out from her costume—who knows _where_ , since it’s basically a skin-tight dress with no visible pockets—and hands it over.

“What are _you_ doing?” Bellamy hisses, but she just holds up her hand, impatient.

The zombie studies the blade curiously, like he isn’t sure what to do with it, and he’s beginning to question this girl’s sanity, when suddenly he raises the knife to the stitching on his rotten lips, and cuts the threads loose.

He hacks up dust and a few moths, Bellamy’s pretty sure, and hands the knife back to Raven. “Thanks,” he adds, a hoarse croak, and Bellamy can _not_ be the only one confused, here.

“They took Monty and Jasper,” Wells tells Raven, grim, and she nods.

“I’ll take care of it. And the curse,” she adds. “You guys just focus on getting Octavia to safety. You can probably go home and hole up there, until I let you know it’s safe.”

“What are _you_ going to do about it?” Murphy asks, suspicious, and Raven smirks down at him.

“I’m a witch. I’ll figure something out.”

The silence stretches on for a moment, until Murphy swipes an angry paw at her leg, which she avoids easily, and rolls her eyes. “Relax, spider-breath. I’m not _that_ kind of witch—Hoodoo, it’s totally different.”

She turns to go, and Wells steps up to follow. “I’ll come with you,” he offers, and Raven frowns.

“I don’t need any help,” she says.

Wells shrugs. “I believe you. I’m still coming.”

Raven fidgets a little, looking unsure and very young all of a sudden. “Fine,” she decides, turning around. “Don’t fall behind.”

“This has been a very strange night,” Clarke says, watching them leave. Bellamy’s watching his sister dust the dirt off a zombie’s back.

“I’m Octavia,” she tells him. “And you’re Lincoln? Nice to meet you.” She grabs his hand and shakes it, and then pulls him along. “He’s coming too,” she says, leaving no room for argument, and Bellamy eyes him warily.

“You better not have maggots,” he says, and starts off.

Passing back through the party takes a little longer, because the kids are more awake for some reason, and they all want to talk to Lincoln about his _killer-cool costume, man!_

One of them holds out his fist, and Lincoln stares at it blankly for a moment, before O takes his and forms a fist. His little finger falls off, but she just bends down and picks it up, stuffing it in his pocket. “We’ll fix it, later,” she assures him.

Murphy comes home with them too, muttering the whole way about _stupid, lazy, fat housecats who can’t even kill a mouse right!_ But when Octavia mentions canned tuna, his tune seems to change.

“You’re going to make me into one of them, aren’t you?” he sighs, but he sounds almost excited about it.

“Yep,” O chirps.

Bellamy and Clarke line her window and doorway with salt, just to be safe, and shut Lincoln and Murphy in the room with her. Murphy puts up a fight at first, grumbling "I'm _three hundred and seventeen years old,_ and being _delegated_ to a  _babysitter_? It's degrading!" But when Clarke offered to let him have the pillow, he hopped right up, tail lashing indignantly to let them know he wasn't  _happy_ about it.

Lincoln didn't argue at all, perfectly content with the etch-a-sketch O shoved in his hands.

Bellamy and Clarke offer to stay too, but she practically shoves them out, claiming she needs her beauty rest, and won’t get _any_ with her brother breathing down her neck.

Bellamy suspects she’s just trying to wingman him some more, and get him and Clarke alone together. He appreciates it, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going to get laid while babysitting his little sister, a zombie, and a talking cat.

He leads Clarke up to his room anyway, because even if they’re not going to have sex, he’s still expecting some hardcore making out, and he’d rather do that on the bed than the downstairs sofa. She studies all the books on his shelf, and his drum set, and the giant tie-dyed pirate flag he and his friends from L.A. made one year, and his Lord of the Rings chess set on the window sill.

Then she crosses over to where he’s perched on the bed, and slides into his lap. She curls her fingers in his hair, and he lets his dig into the skin of her hips until she’s slotted right up against him.

“So, I’m thinking we should probably make sure this kind of thing won’t happen ever again,” she says, which is pretty much the opposite of what he’s expecting. He was expecting her to stick her tongue in his mouth, and now he’s pretty disappointed.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because she’s right. “What did you have in mind?” He’s thinking she might want to hash out some sort of plan to get the city involved, and lock the candle in a vault or something, but instead she sticks her tongue in his mouth.

“Well,” she says, pulling back just enough so that their lips still brush as she speaks. “You can’t bring them back if you’re not a virgin.”

Bellamy laughs, surging up to lick the side of her neck until she whimpers. “So it’s for my safety?” he teases, and she grinds up against him, dirty and unrelenting, until they have a rhythm going, and he’s panting in her ear.

“For safety,” she agrees, and tugs his shirt off so she can suck bruises on his chest.

They’re still kissing, deep and languid in his bed, tangled up in sheets sticking to their sweaty hair and skin. Clarke has a ring of red marks from his mouth around her neck, and more down her breasts, and a few on her thighs. He keeps reaching out to touch them, as if to prove they’re there, and she laughs each time, because he’s ridiculous.

There’s a quick knocking on his door, and then a loud _thump_ , like someone’s kicked it. Raven’s voice calls through the wood, “Are you dressed? It’s over.”

“In a second,” Clarke calls back, giggling into his neck, and he grins. He likes the feel of her here, in his bed. He doesn’t want her to ever leave.

She’s pulling her sweater back on—which is, in itself, a tragedy—when she turns to him, stern and serious. “You’re still taking me on a date,” she tells him, and he laughs. “I mean it—it doesn’t have to be, like, anything fancy, but,” she trails off, worrying her lip, and Bellamy stands up so he can kiss her.

“I’m still taking you on a date,” he agrees, feeling fond, and still pretty lightheaded from the second orgasm. “I’m taking you on _so_ many dates. You’ll be sick of me.”

“Maybe,” Clarke grins, kissing his chin. Raven bursts through the door with an impressive eye roll.

“I can’t believe you two fucked in the middle of an epic witch battle,” she says, but she sounds sort of impressed.

“It was like zombie apocalypse sex,” Clarke shrugs, and she’s still smiling at him, like she doesn’t really know how to stop. He tangles their fingers together. “End-of-the-world sex.”

Raven scoffs. “It was hardly a zombie apocalypse, Griffin,” she says, and Clarke stares at her pointedly.

“There is an actual zombie literally next door.”

“Fair enough.”

Bellamy blanches a little at the thought of explaining Murphy to his parents, whenever they get home. And he doesn’t even want to _think_ about explaining Lincoln. “What are we supposed to do with him, anyway? Does he go back to his grave?”

Raven shakes her head. “He’s alive indefinitely—that spell won’t wear off. Wells is interrogating him right now; he’ll probably start some sort of Zombie Civil Rights campaign, or something. He can stay at my place, for now. I have some potions I want to try out, for the rot.”

“What about Monty and Jasper?” Clarke points out, and Bellamy feels a little guilty, because he’d totally forgotten about those two.

But then Raven blanches too, and he feels slightly bitter. “Shit, they’re probably still back at the cottage, in those cages.” She makes a face. “I’ll go grab them later—they can sleep it off, for now.”

Clarke shakes her head at the pair of them, but she still leans in when Bellamy tugs her back against him, pressing a kiss to her hair. She tips her head back to look at him, smug. “Still think it’s all a bunch of hocus pocus?” she teases, and he huffs a laugh, because—

This is his life, now. He has a pet talking cat, and a pet zombie, and a friend who’s a witch, and a _girlfriend_. It’s all pretty surreal, and he’s not sure that’ll ever fade with time.

Outside, the sun starts to rise over Salem, turning everything a dusty pink. Somewhere, three witches are lying in a puddle, or in a grave, or dissolving in the air as dust.

He pulls Clarke even closer, and she folds her hand under his shirt to rest on the warm skin of his back. “I think you’ve convinced me.”


End file.
